Sephtis stared at the space suit hanging next to the escape hatch. It was a NASA circa 1970 model. All space stations carried one on board for luck, so he thought. Sephtis now knew otherwise. The suit served an unimaginable purpose.
“You have three choices.” The recorded voice was soft, sensual, and female. An attempt to lessen the impact of the words. Sephtis thought she was a cold-hearted bitch.
Did he misunderstand? Sephtis replayed the message.
“… spacecraft malfunction…. living in a dream state…. technology to return you to your own time is imminent…. three choices”
Sephtis’s heart pounded in his chest as reality set in. His world was a thousand-year nightmare, interrupted for one purpose only: to make a choice. He could go back to sleep for another 100 years and hope someone figures out how to get him home. Or, Sephtis could remain awake and help the scientists solve the problem, hopefully before he dies of old age. The final choice: put on the spacesuit, open the hatch, and step out. The suit would release a toxic gas, killing him as he floated into space. The humane choice.
Three choices, thought Sephtis. But really only one.
This story was inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction and the idea of writing a story prompted by the weekly photo using 200 words.